


(i can hear) violins, violins

by SbiderSlut (BlackCoffeeCat)



Series: Somno Industries [2]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anger, Angst, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Reconciliation, Smut, Somnophilia, Trauma, morally ambiguous ending, the rape occurs in the previous fic -- this fic is the aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 03:53:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17614943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackCoffeeCat/pseuds/SbiderSlut
Summary: In which Peter struggles immensely in the aftermath of being violated by his drunk mentor.---A sequel to Care Less by HarmoniaChimera; Part 2 of the Somno Industries series.





	(i can hear) violins, violins

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of many possible depictions of the psychological aftermath of rape -- and this is particularly dark. Different people react differently to trauma. 
> 
> By no means should this be taken as an example of an ideal or healthy way to recover from rape -- the choices Peter make in this fic are **_Not Good_** , and that this fic is dark and also **_Not Good_**. This piece is purely meant as an artistic and exploratory piece on rage and trauma, and to provide a transition/foundation from HarmoniaChimera's piece to the pieces future authors will write, which primarily feature more lighthearted somnophilia smut. 
> 
> So, whether Peter made a decent choice or the worst possible one is 100% open for interpretation. 
> 
> That said, here are some more tags/contents that you should be aware of:
> 
>   * Peter ends up in a relationship with Tony at the end of the fic (there's reconciliation and repentance involved, though it's up to interpretation whether it's enough, or whether any amount could ever be enough)
>   * Peter also discovers that he has a fetish for somnophilia with non-con elements, and struggles to reconcile that with his trauma
>   * Graphic, and emotionally detailed references to Peter's rape
>   * Mention of Tony Stark's alcoholism, which is a major vehicle in the initial, off-screen rape
>   * A lot of mental flagellation on Peter's part, including instances of self-blame and self-hate, none of which are true to rape victims, but which are often common in the aftermath of rape. Peter is wrong in his assumptions, but he can't help thinking them as he processes his trauma
>   * Instances of Peter feeling sexual arousal and gratification from his trauma
> 

> 
> Please read forward with caution and take care <3
> 
> (Title is taken from Ultraviolence by Lana Del Rey)

(The less Peter can remember about waking up, the better.)

Peter Parker’s known loneliness and helplessness; Ben’s death and those first few isolated months as Spider-Man both come to mind. But having to gather the shreds of his dignity (actually, who is he kidding? There’s no dignity left to gather) after waking up alone in Tony Stark’s bed is harrowing in a way nothing else has ever been.

There’s heartache, deep and cutting, because his relationship with Stark leaves no room for fear or confusion. Peter doesn’t have to wonder who had fucked him while he’d been indisposed.

He knows.

If Peter weren’t so, so confident in both the security of Stark’s quarters and Stark’s protocols to keep Peter safe, he might have been able to fool himself into thinking that someone else had done _this_ to him.

But, that’s not possible.

FRIDAY is programmed to push through any notifications of harm befalling Peter. She’s protected Peter, on multiple occasions. She has state-of-the-art security to prevent intruders.

There’s only one person with the logistical capabilities to do this -- the same person who has full control over FRIDAY, the _only_ person whose prerogatives will _ever_ override Peter’s personal safety within FRIDAY’s protocol.

(Because Peter Parker’s safety has always been so paramount to Tony Stark.)

The only person who could have done this?

FRIDAY’s creator.

Tony.

 _Tony_ had done this to him. _Tony_ had taken Peter’s unconscious, unconsenting body and fucked into him. _Tony_ had then unceremoniously dumped Peter like a toy that’s been used to boredom, not even bothering to help him fully on the bed. Peter’s still folded over the edge, legs dragging on carpet.

He’s not even dressed -- his ass is exposed to the chilly air.

 _Tony_ had done that.

Mr. Stark -- _Peter’s_ Mr. Stark -- he had done _that_.

No matter how many times Peter tells that to himself, the concept sounds _wrong_. It doesn’t _fit._

But by some fucked-up development, they’re the truth.

And top of the _act,_ he’d then left Peter like a piece of used garbage -- as if Peter were some random hookup from a decade ago, and not the man’s coworker and prized protegee.  

It’s the coldest feeling. He may not have Tony’s heart or his feelings, but to see just how little the man cared in even the most basic, platonic sense?

 _Cold_.

Peter wishes more than anything it were someone else. Anyone else. It would have still hurt, but nothing like this. Nothing like knowing that the mentor he trusts damn near every with had violated him in such an intimate, abhorrent manner.

Oh, and then Tony had _left._ That part smarts -- almost as much as having been violated.

How in the hell can Peter reconcile any of that?

The knowledge of what has happened drives Peter to a zone of utter shock and depersonalization. He can’t quite find the tears he knows are waiting to come out. The room feels eerily surreal as he pushes himself up and quietly tugs his pants back up, wincing at the chafing of cloth against the raw skin of his ass.

At least Stark hadn’t drawn blood. At least Peter heals somewhat fast. He doesn’t want to think how much pain he’d be in if it weren’t for his abilities.

Peter glances around the mess that is the bedroom, feeling unsure of his welcome, which is just ridiculous.

(He wrangles down the infuriating urge to tidy up all the tipped over bottles and glasses, because _no_. Just no.)

After being hurt and brutalized, Peter should be justified in taking some bare amounts of personal comfort. He should have no compunction about taking a hot shower and grabbing some clothes. Of calling himself a ride home on Stark’s dime.

If there’s any time Peter should be allowed some entitlement, its _now_.

Still, he _can’t_. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetically sad. Turns out, Peter Parker is just as timid about some things, including using his mentor’s facilities or borrowing clothes, even after … _that_. He feels guilty about using or taking without express permission ( _That’s definitely the opposite of Stark’s problem,_ his mind helpfully supplies) and he knows for sure he can’t handle seeing the man right now to ask for said permission.

(And that’s only if Stark is even on the premises.)

So, Peter retreats.

\---

The walk and subway ride home is shameful and bleak. Cruelly, the sun is shining bright, which is jarring compared to how Peter can already feel himself rotting from the inside.

 _How do people do this on TV? How do they do this walk of shame?_ He clenches his one hand around the subway post and swallows around a wave of nausea. It goes down painfully dry. The rocking of the car makes his stomach churn. _How can they take this?_  

Then again, the characters on TV (usually) consent to their mistakes.

Unlike Peter.

They usually had a choice; Peter hadn’t been allowed one.

If he had been? He wouldn’t have chosen this, that’s for sure. As pathetic and puppy-like as his crush on Stark is, and as much as he loves the man, he would never have chosen this.

He never wanted to lose his virginity this way.

He never wanted to fuck Mr. Stark this way.

He never wanted Mr. Stark to be a --  

(He can’t bring himself to think _that word_.)

Illogically, Peter mourns the type of man Tony Stark has become with this one act; the thought is heartbreaking. It topples Peter’s faith in the man’s benevolence. No longer can Peter tell himself that, for all his faults, Tony Stark is a decent man.

That’s no longer true, and Peter hates that. He mourns that.

He can’t help but think: If he’d just drank a _little_ less. Or even if he’d gone somewhere else before passing out. If he weren’t so stupid and didn’t strike that deal in the first place because what the _hell_ had he been hoping to achieve? He’d _known_ , he’d always fucking _known_ about Stark’s vice -- that, despite all of his good traits, Stark was drowning deep in the bottle. How had Peter been so delusional to think he’d convince the man otherwise?

(Even worse, though, is how Peter hates the fact that Stark had done this heinous thing _more_ than he hates that this heinous thing had been done to him. He nearly regrets the commitment of the crime more than he regrets being the victim. He’s almost more concerned about Stark’s ledger than his own dignity. How fucked is that?)

Peter mulls the entire ride home, caught between some hazy combination of melancholy and concern. Melancholy, because he’s at a historical level of dejection and he’s not sure how he hasn’t crumbled away yet, and concern, because Peter is over here mourning the death of a man’s decency more than the violence committed against himself.

Where’s the hate? The anger? The thirst for revenge?

What the hell is wrong with him?

Peter walks home in a daze -- thank god May is at work. Stepping into the apartment, he both feels relieved to be home, yet hollow, because home feels quite _cold_. He can shut the door behind him and seal away the world, but that doesn't shut out what happened. That doesn't quell the rot inside him which fades out the normal comfort of their home. Standing under the warm downpour of his shower doesn't rinse away his experience.

Robotically and methodically, Peter pours soap into his hands and rubs himself down -- first his chest and his limbs, just to take off a day’s worth of grime. And then, he trails his fingers over his ass, barely able to breathe at the ghost of touches, and slides his fingers through his crack. His breath hitches at the soreness. Gently and detachedly, Peter cleans himself _there_. He notices, with detachment, that his fingers tremble as they gently swirl soap around his hole, but makes nothing of it.

Peter really, _really_ , wants to ignore the hysteria that’s slowly, steadily rising up -- like a thin stream of sand in an hourglass timer. That’s gonna build up. That’s gonna hurt. That’s … to be sorted later.

He rinses clean with gentle splashes of water between his legs, and pours some more soap to wash his … _oh_. His cock is hard. At full mast, actually. It’s standing, stiff and red, and suddenly Peter’s hit with the physiological sensations of arousal -- tingling in his lower belly, the aching in his groin, the sensitivity of warm, soapy water trickling along the length.

 _Fuck._ What even --?

There’s nothing in his head that’s identifiably arousing. He’s literally just trying to wash off -- wash off the filthy deeds that were forced on him, the unwanted touch of his mentor who’d taken what didn’t belong to him.

Illogically, Peter's cock jumps. 

He has to swallow down an urge to vomit.

It makes no sense; those thoughts are not happy thoughts. They just make the sands of woe trickle faster --  Peter can feel himself nudging closer to some breaking point he’s not exactly excited about.

Yet, he remains hard.

 _Yeah, no_ , Peter thinks. There’s no fucking way he’s coming home fresh from _violation_ (he wonders how long it will be before he can even fathom, let alone use the actual term), and then jerking off.

That’s wrong. That’s disgusting. That’s just …

He has no words, no explanation.

Ignoring his arousal with a fierce, desperate determination, Peter haphazardly, loosely splashes his cock with soapy water, rinses off, wraps himself in several fluffy towels, and falls back on his bed.

Against all his expectations, he somehow finds sleep.

\---

Peter wakes up with a particularly rough roll of his hips, hard, leaking cock catching along the cotton of his sheets. _Fuck_ , that’s _good_. He grinds forward again, clenching the muscles of his thighs and sighing softly into the fluff of his pillow.

He could just get off like this, he’s so aroused.

Then, it hits him like a train.

The previous day. Stark, drunk off his ass. Waking up alone. The lonely journey home. That horrifying shower where he couldn’t, for god-knows-what reason, control his traitorous dick.

Fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

With more effort than he’s comfortable admitting, Peter stills his hips and rolls onto his back, breath falling out in uneven pants.

His body screams for relief, but that’s not happening. Peter refuses. He can’t stop the arousal from simmering, angry and hot, low in his stomach, but he draws the line at touching himself before even twenty-four hours have passed since… _since_.

(He wonders, again, if he’ll ever be able to use _that word_.)

He gets up, throws on loose clothes, and keeps busy -- pacing and checking his phone (he has texts from Ned and MJ that he won’t answer today; the con to having such good friends is how they intrinsically know when something is wrong, and Peter can’t talk about it yet, he just _can’t;_ he doesn’t want those looks of pity or horror or sadness.). He does a bit of homework. Paces some more.

When he’s finally calmed down to a functional level, he goes and burns himself a piece of charred toast that sits bitter on his tongue. What’s a little bitterness after everything that’s just happened?

 _I can hold out,_ Peter tells himself, knowing full well that he can’t. His lower belly is burning hot like a furnace, and the arousal remains at a simmering boil, bubbling away. He’s going to cave, without a doubt.

And when he does, it’s going to hurt.

(But it can’t be worse than what Stark did to him, can it? Nothing can.)

He chews his bitter toast and ponders just how fucked he is.

\---

He holds out for all of a few hours.

Between being a young man and having heightened senses, Peter can only stand to be on edge so long before he’d either cave or go mad.

And he’s already gone mad, he thinks. If he even has an ounce within him to feel bad for Tony Stark at this point, he’d consider himself mad. Despite his wishes, he has more than an ounce -- a lot more.

He absolutely shouldn’t, but he still loves the man.

So, there’s no madness to claim; Peter already has all of it. What option does he have left but to cave?

(It’s funny how he’s once again left without a choice.)

( _Cruel_. Cruel is the word, actually. It’s fucking cruel.)

The thought of touching himself is too much. Knowing what happened to him when he’d been passed out, just the thought of any hands touching himself in any less-than-innocent manner -- even if they are his own -- makes him feel sick.

With what feels like a sack of rocks in his belly, Peter goes to his bed. Arms trembling, he slowly lowers down on his front with his comforter bunched under his hips.

 _I’m really doing this,_ Peter thinks. Under his clenching fingers, his sheets scrunch up. The pillow is soft under his forehead -- unbearably soft. All its gentleness does is remind him of brutality, so he tosses the pillow on the floor.

He rests his head against the mattress -- firmer and easier on his cracked heart -- and breathes in.

Breathes out.

He’s hard. If he’s honest, he’s been walking along the edge of being hard all day; all it takes is the feeling of his plush comforter between his legs before his cock stiffens and swells, turning into a heavy weight that drags deliciously with each shift of his body.

He braces himself, both physically and mentally, and gives his hips a slow, cautious roll. “ _H-hah,_ ” he gasps out, feeling the pleasure pool low in his groin, ready to spill over at any point. He rolls his hips again, going even slower so that he can feel the over-sensitized, swollen head of his cock drag against the inside of his boxers. “O _hhh fuck.”_

He’s so on edge; every tiniest hair-breadth of movement sends searing sparks of pleasure racing up his spine and he knows this is a too-easy job. He hastens himself, rutting his hips against a particularly pleasant ripple in his comforter, and gasps, out, humid against his mattress. “Please,” he whimpers out. At who or what, he doesn’t know.

Even as his hips speed up and he finds that perfect, fluttery, furious rhythm and angle that makes his toes curl and groin burn, it becomes apparent that there’s something holding him back. He’s dangling on the edge, but he’s stuck, and it’s so, so good, yet utterly unbearable. “Oh god,” he squeaks out, voice feathery and dangerously close to a sob. “ _F-fuck_.”

It hits Peter, suddenly, how the insides of his thighs burn and he shifts his head slightly, peering down the narrow space between his body and the bed. He realizes that in a fit of filthy depravity, he’d spread his legs wide, wide apart in an effort to get a better angle.

It _is_ better -- his pleasure heightens impossibly, and he loses all control of his vocals, mouth falling open and choked, debauched little ‘ _uhn, uhn, uhns_ ’ tumbling out in time with the frantic grinding of his hips.

Still, it’s not enough.   

Peter makes a decision, right then, pushed too far and too desperate to care anymore. He slides a hand underneath himself and, without thinking, pushes the waistband of his boxers down, taking his leaking cock in hand. “Yes,” he hisses out, starting to fist himself roughly, finding a twisted solace in how his grip is so tight that the pleasure hurts.

“God, fuck,” he pants out, hips thrusting down into his fist. “Fuck, I’m so close, _please_.”

_Please, Mr. Stark._

Unbidden, the imaginary portrait of himself -- passed out and being _raped_ by his mentor -- flashes across Peter’s mind. He sees Mr. Stark, disgustingly drunk out of his mind and fucking into Peter’s lax, undefended asshole as Peter lays limp, body lolling dumbly with each rough thrust. He pictures the brutality in the man’s movements as he holds Peter face-down and rams into the unconscious protegee he claims to care for so much.

It’s like a spark which lights an explosion.

Peter comes, harder than he’s ever come. The heartbreak slams into him like a freight train, tearing deliciously at his chest in tandem with the surge in his groin, so fierce and sudden that it fucking _hurts_. Peter wails, loudly, and his hips snap forward. He gushes, come staining his fingers and his sheets.

And just like that, the wails taper into tears.

“Oh, fuck,” Peter cries out, a flood of tears blurring out his vision as pleasure continues to wrack his body. He shakes and gasps through the waves, until they finally let him free. He’s dog-tired, barely conscious, and feeling as if he’d narrowly avoided death.

Then, uncaring of how his come sticks between the sheets and his skin, he collapses forward, buries his face between his hands, and starts to sob.

\---

What a shitty fucking way to realize that you’re aroused by the thought of your own rape.

At least Peter can use the actual word, now.

At least.

\---

At least, he thinks, when he wakes up hours later covered in dried come and face crusty with earlier tears, at least he has his anger now.

He thinks about his _rape_ and he feels a hot, furious stirring in his gut that he knows he’ll have one hell of a time dealing with.

It’s rage, comforting and deadly and vicious, coming to hold Peter back up. She’s here, drawing Peter into her coal-hot embrace to hold him safe and close as they watch the world burn.

So, he might have caved into something so dark he’s unable to see the bottom, yet. But he also -- _finally_ \-- has anger.

\---

Days trickle by. The embers of his rage ebb and grow as he stumbles through his days, but they burn.

They don’t stop burning.

\---

It’s all a giant, fucking Pandora’s Box. Once cracked open, it spills over, uncontainable. Peter can’t keep the persistent thoughts out of his mind -- it becomes an obsession.

The days drag on like soft feet over sandpaper.

When Peter crawls into his bed every night, it’s to the thought that someone could come into his room and take him as he’s sleeping. He’s not really safe anywhere or with anyone, Peter’s realized. Anytime he’s not conscious, he’s vulnerable.

And he’s not sure whether the thought arouses or frightens him more.

When he thinks about Tony Stark now, he remembers how he felt when he woke up -- sore, raw, used. Alone. Still loose and pliant and filled -- sticky droplets of come had trickled down the back of his thigh as he pushed himself to standing.

He remembers all the tears he’s shed in those first few purgatorial days, all the pain and turmoil he’s endured because he’s been hurt, badly, only to find out he _likes_ the very thing which had been forced upon him.

It’s all still there -- he’s still hurting. The hurt hasn’t left, and probably won’t leave for a long time. Sometimes, Peter can barely breathe. It’s not only what happened to him, but _who_ had done that to him.

All Peter’d ever done is silently love Tony Stark, silently pledge his undying devotion to the man. He’d trusted the man with everything he has, with his darkest, most intimate secrets.

And look where that’s left him.

The anger still hasn’t left, which he’s grateful for. She keeps him company. She keeps him going.

There’s anger at himself, anger at Stark, anger at the world. What happened that night was _wrong_ , and it took some waiting for him to find that righteous indignation, but now that he has? Peter wants reparations. He wants an apology. He wants someone else to shoulder the pain with him; how is it fair that he should endure it alone?

He wants someone to make everything okay, even if he _knows_ that’s not how life works.

He wants someone else to hurt.

The part that bothers Peter the most, though? He wants… _it_ again.

He can hardly ignore it -- Peter Parker hasn’t endured death and countless other trials to play at denial with such a serious subject. That’s just not who he is.

Sometimes, though, he wishes he were different.

\---

In the end, Peter does the one thing he most definitely should not -- he goes back to Tony.

The thing, too: Tony lets him up. When he requests access, Tony buzzes him in.

Just like that.

 _Maybe he misses me, too,_ Peter thinks.

When Peter walks in and sees the man, he sees dark circles and wrinkles and tiredness. He looks in those weary eyes and sees a potent blend of pain and fear.

And Peter feels… _good._ Powerful. High on the hurt that Tony is radiating.

He plasters on a cheerful smile and chirps, “Hiya, Mr. Stark,” reveling in the way confusion and discomfort mangle the older man’s features. “It’s been a while! What are we working on today?”  

“... Kid.”

Christ, he’s never been so malicious before, so hungry to bask in other people’s suffering.

Maybe being broken apart by someone you loved and trusted just does that to a person.

He sees Tony like this, carrying the guilt and hurt of what he did, and Peter wants to watch it fester. He wants to watch it become infected and gangrenous.

A quieter part of him -- a tiny part that still naively loves his dear _Mr. Stark_ \-- screams that hurting other people isn’t going to help him. It begs him to stop hurting the older man.

That part of Peter has been so battered down that he can hardly hear anything over the cacophony of his newfound vitriol.

He’s so hateful that if he weren’t so, so thirsty for blood, he’d be horrified.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Stark?” Peter pastes on his best innocuous expression, even as his tone lilts in unmistakable challenge. _Bring it up, I fucking dare you._ He watches as Tony visibly processes the situation and comes to the reluctant decision that he’s going to play along with Peter’s fucked-up game.

That’s right, it’s Peter’s fucking game, now. He’s running the show. From now on, he’ll be the only one who gets to decide when he’s violated.

Tony Stark -- _the_ Tony Stark -- concedes, and Peter suddenly understands why people become supervillains. The power is intoxicating.

With hands that shake ever-so-slightly, Tony directs Peter towards a project and promptly retreats to the other side of the workshop.

Peter observes Tony as he works, notices the man’s tense posture, the turmoil that seems to ooze out of every pore, and he _enjoys_ it.

As Peter stuffs his pillow between his legs later that night and brutally grinds himself against the too-forgiving softness, his thoughts phase through the pain that was on Stark’s face earlier, to his own pain that he’s still enduring, and finally, to the sheer powerlessness that he’d experienced that night. He comes with a painful jolt, and realizes, with a sickening drop of his stomach, that on some twisted level, he has intentions to let Stark fuck him again.

Except for this time, he’s _allowing_ it.

And that? That makes all the difference.

A lot is still fucked up in his mind, but Peter takes these thoughts as a positive sign that he still has _some_ agency over his body. It's not much, but it's something. It's enough to keep him going.

By the end of this, Tony Stark will be sorry.

\---

The first time Peter does it, he has to pile lies on himself.

_No, I’m not trying to orchestrate my own rape right now. I’m not about to purposefully fall asleep around the man who hurt me. I’m really not._

_I’m just that sleepy. Yep, I’m tired and sleepy and I can’t keep my eyes open anymore, so I’m just going to lay down on this couch while Mr. Stark is working across the room, and go to sleep. And oh, I hope nobody touches me while I’m out._

He wakes up alone, untouched, clothes impeccable. There’s an afghan draped over him ever-so-gently, and his shoes are off, but that’s it.

He’s conscious and unhurt.

Peter buries his face against the mattress and cries shameful, bitter tears into the luxurious fabric.

Out of all the possible dubious deeds he could possibly commit, this is quite possibly the worst. He should _not_ be pulling this kind of shit. MJ could quote statistics at him about revictimization and provocative coping methods.

But those numbers? They're just numbers.

Sure, Peter cared, but they were an abstract concept to him -- up until he was violated.

And now that he’s been violated? The numbers still don’t become real. What help are they to him, now? He’s here, and no amount of research studies and national statistics can quell this horrible, deviant urge that’s been unearthed in him.

Peter does it a second time.

And then a third.

And a fourth.

At some point, he stops lying to himself. He doesn’t even try to justify it, he just _sleeps_.

Each time, he wakes up safe and sound and tucked in warmly, and he resents it more than he’s resented anything before.

It’s not _fair_ , that the _one_ time he was violated, he wasn’t aware or wanting it.

It’s not _fair,_ that he was forced a taste of what he now craves, with no way of getting more.

_It’s not fucking fair._

What now? Is he damaged goods? Is that why Tony won’t touch him again? Is Peter undesirable now that he’s been _popped_?

The thought fills him with rage and sorow.

In retaliation and to cope, Peter amps up his heinousness. He starts stripping down to his tank top and letting it ride up high on his toned belly. He starts unbuttoning his jeans -- seemingly for comfort -- but he pushes them low enough that there’s the tempting jut of hipbones and a teasing peek of a faint muscular ‘v’ leading downwards.

He pretends to be asleep and shifts so that the motions can nudge his pants and underwear further down, until he’s just short of spilling out of his clothes. He knows Stark sees it -- even with his eyes closed, he can practically _hear_ the tension in the air like a taut web of razor-sharp threads.

Still, Stark doesn’t lay a single hand on him. The air between them becomes strained, to the point that Peter knows they're near the precipice of a snap, but Stark doesn’t touch him.

So Peter lays all his cards on the table; he tries his last trick he’s been keeping up his sleeve -- his completely fucked version of a hidden ace. He moves over to the couch, noticing with satisfaction how Stark visibly tenses. He pulls his sweatshirt off over his head and then stretches, fully aware of how his lean figure extends and ripples as he raises his arms high above his head.

The workshop is so silent that it roars.

Finally, Peter reaches down and unbuttons his jeans, pushing them all the way down and stepping out of them. He wore heather grey boxers today -- modest and unassuming. Good, that means he has less of a chance of scaring Stark away early on in the game.

Pretending to be innocently oblivious, Peter settles on his back and lays out, performing the motions of falling asleep.

When enough time has elapsed, he lets his mind drift -- to every filthy, sick desire he’s been struggling with. Even as he slipped, he’s been trying to keep a reign on the worst of his inclinations.

Now, though? He takes a sledgehammer and smashes the dam apart.

He imagines how pliant and willing his unconscious body would look as Stark fucks into him. He imagines that delicate, hanging moment of held breath as Stark’s cock lines up with his hole and applies pressure. He imagines that moment of calm before the storm, and then the breaking point when he opens under the pressure and Stark slams home.

He wonders, what does Stark sound like when he’s fucking Peter’s limp body? Does he moan with abandon, or does he match his thrusts with sharp, unrefined grunts? Does he snarl like a rabid animal, or mutter filthy curses under his breath?

It doesn’t take much before Peter is blatantly hard. He shifts so that the material of his boxers stretch over him, leaving no question as to his state.

Metal crashes against a surface, and Peter nearly hums in satisfaction.

He thinks of how it’ll feel to wake up from a daze and feel his hole stretched out and aching again. Except, this time, he’ll have gone to sleep expecting it. He wonders what it would feel like if he wakes up in the middle, if he slowly becomes aware of being brutally fucked -- in and out, in and out -- by a thick, unrelenting cock. He wonders if it would be the rhythmic jolts which slowly rouse him, or the building pleasure. Maybe it’ll be the noises -- slick and wet and furiously fast, all in sync with the soft grunts and moans Tony might make as he fucks into Peter’s tight, defenseless heat.

He’s leaking, then, which is undoubtedly visible with the light heather of his boxers. He _knows_ Tony can see the way he’s straining against the fabric, staining it a darker grey. The thought makes his cock jump.

Heart pounding, he takes a fake-sleepy breath and lets out a soft, breathy moan -- one which promises more. One which will undoubtedly escalate.

Tony flees the workshop -- a panicked squeak of shoes, and then the telling sounds of hasty walking. The doors shut with a controlled _woosh_.

As soon as the doors close, Peter shoves his hand into his boxers and fists his aching cock in a clammy hand. He strokes himself as he lays right out in the open, groaning as he feels the abundance of precum making his strokes slippery and wet. “Fuck,” he rasps, hearing how the lewd sounds of his cock sliding against his palm seem to fill up the silence of the workshop.

If only Tony could hear him.

A pleasure which borders on pain builds low in Peter's spine, and all it takes is the one moment’s thought of being brutally fucked while unconscious (it works like _magic_ , every. Fucking. Time), and he’s plunging right over the edge. He comes into his boxers with a raspy, wrecked moan.

As Peter comes down, quivering and panting, he thinks that if today’s events don’t spark a reaction from Tony, then nothing will.  

Now, he just has to wait. 

\---

And _oh_ , does it get a reaction -- just not the one Peter expected or wished for.     

\---

Out of all the outrageous things that Peter imagined Tony Stark has done or could do, handing over document for a scheduled therapy session was _not_ on the list.

“What the fuck is this?” Peter finds himself asking, voice low and dangerous. The paper wrinkles miserably under the tightness of his grip.

Two weeks ago, Peter Parker would never have dreamt of using such a vicious tone with his mentor. But two weeks ago, Peter Parker hadn't been raped yet. He hadn't been handed a printed appointment slip like a write-off or a settlement check. 

Tony looks at him, face pained, and says, “I got you on the list as a regular for one of the best trauma therapists in the city. It’s all paid for, transportation is arranged, all you have to do is show up. You need help, Peter. I’ve seen what you’ve been doing, and it’s not healthy.”

“And what about you?” Peter asks. Against his will, his voice starts to shake; He clenches his fists and digs his nails into his palms to steady himself. _Aren’t some of your problems the very reason why we’re in this situation in the first place?_

“What about me?” Tony scoffs. “I hardly matter. Look at the type of person I am. Just… help yourself, alright?”

“Fuck. You.” To his immense frustration, Peter feels tears burning at his eyes, even as he grits out his angry words.  

Tony blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Fuck you,” Peter repeats. “‘ _I’m sorry’_? Yeah, you should be. Where was that, before?”

“I - I --”

“And now you’re going to throw money at me to make the problem go away, aren’t you? You think, just because you lower some abstract number in one of your hundreds of bank accounts, that it will make the hurt stop?” Peter pauses, takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then looks Tony right in the eyes. “How. Dare. You.”

A few tears fall loose, and Tony looks sick at the sight of them. “Peter, I don’t --” he looks down, and then to the side -- literally at anything and anywhere except Peter and his tears.

“Look at me,” Peter snaps, vision blurring. “You did this to me. The least you can do is look me in the face.”

“I’m _sorry._ ” The man’s voice cracks.

After everything, that sound still hurts Peter’s heart. It shouldn’t, but it does.

Peter can’t stop, now that he’s started. There’s so much he’s been wanting to say -- so much he’s silently thought to himself in the darkness of his room where nothing but walls and posters bear witness to his soundless tears and stifled sobs.

“How does _‘sorry’_ help me?” Peter asks, bitterness lacing his tone. “Is that -- and your shitty money -- all you have to offer? Every other mistake you’ve made in the past, you’ve worked hard to fix it. You ended weapons production. You pushed for the Accords. You’re even fixing problems you didn’t cause. Everyone in the fucking world sees you trying to right wrongs every day and make bad things better. But...”

Saying it is _so much worse_ than thinking it. It’s like once he’s opened his mouth, his emotions seem determined to cling onto his words. Peter starts to cry -- nothing spectacular, at all -- just these resentful, little hitches of breath accompanied by the slow, burning trickle of tears down his cheeks. _Goddammit._ “But you’re not… you’re not willing to try and f-fix me?”

“Pete...”

“W-Why? Why not me?”  

“I shouldn’t be allowed near you,” Tony says, voice gravelly and hoarse. “Look at what I did.”

“I am looking,” Peter counters, voice quaking wretchedly. “I see it every day. Are _you_ , though? Cause it seems like you’ve been looking at everything _except_ me, because _you_ don’t want to see.”

“Peter, just take the therapy, alright? Whatever you want, whatever reparations you want, I will give you them, I swear. If you want me in jail, I’ll go. But, just go to therapy. Please. It’s for your own good.”

“What do you know about what’s good for me?” Peter snarls. He storms out, then, because there’s more pressure building under his skin and he’s not sure what ungodly, mangled, ugly thing is going to come crawling out when he bursts. He leaves the billionaire in his shitty workshop, clutching onto a handful of regrets, and it’s more satisfying than he had originally imagined.

He takes the therapy letter with him, though.

Maybe some small, smart particle of his old self is still alive, after all.

\---

Or, maybe not.

\---

Peter quickly decides, on his teary way home, he has zero intention of making the appointment. He shreds the slip.

Let Stark throw his money all he wants; Peter would rather let it go to waste. There’s a petty satisfaction to that.

He wants reparations on his own terms.

He wants Stark to bleed -- slow and viscous, deep crimson, from his veins. A dragged out agony, not the merciful burst of scarlet from a pumping artery. 

Instead of going to the appointment, Peter makes the worst decision he possibly could -- he drinks.

Not just that, though. He flirts with one of the senior boys at Midtown until he relents and exchanges Peter a large supply of cheap, potent booze for a wad of internship cash withdrawn from his bank. Peter bundles the liquor all up in his backpack, stuffed between sweaters so the glass won’t crack. Then, he swings into Manhattan, forward and forward, until he makes his way up the side of the skeleton that is Stark Tower. He settles onto the high balcony of Tony’s former living quarters.

Now abandoned and unwanted after being used to uselessness, just like Peter.

It’s not long before the sun sets and he has the cover of darkness to be as he chooses to be, without the fear of wandering eyes. Distantly, Peter wonders if he’s being surveilled. Is Tony watching him? Does he still have AI in the tower, informing him of Peter’s visit?

Nonetheless, once the sky is fully dark, Peter unzips his backpack and takes out the first bottle. He unscrews the top, listening for the slight snapping of the seal. _The real deal,_ he thinks. It’s not watered down.

Peter holds his breath and takes several long pulls, wincing as the liquor burns down his esophagus and warms the inside of his stomach. It’s sharp, and hot, and searing; it's just a bit uncomfortable. 

Nothing he can't handle, though. It's nothing, compared to the burning of his muscles and his used rear as he'd shuffled home that morning.

Peter starts feeling woozy halfway through the bottle, and by the time he hears the telltale whirring of repulsors, he’s too far gone to care.

“Oh, look who it is,” he drawls, as Iron Man lands beside him on the balcony. “Come to join the party? It’s dangerous, you know? You never know what might happen when you're wasted.”

Even through the suit, Peter can hear the wince.

“Jesus, kid, get up,” Tony mutters, the suit opening around him. “You’re too drunk to be sitting out on a balcony. We’re getting you inside.” He steps up close to Peter and tries to help him to standing.

“Ooh, are you going to fuck me when I pass out, sir?” Peter asks, letting Stark drag him to his feet and bear the brunt of his weight. He purposefully makes his body loose and pliant so the billionaire can struggle. “Can you at least lay me on my back and cover me once you’re finished with me this time? Waking up bent over the edge of the bed makes my muscles sore.”

“God, Parker,” Stark says, voice quiet and horrified as he hauls Peter through the balcony doors. “How much did you have to drink?”

“Not enough.”

“We’re going to sober you up,” Stark murmurs. The older man's voice trembles and Peter smiles drunkenly at that display of weakness. It’s delicious. “We'll get you in a dignified state. This is a mess.”

Peter giggles, but it comes out gurgly and wet. “I have no dignity left,” he slurs. “You took all of it when you left me like a used whore on your bed.”

“Kid…”

“Don’t call me that,” Peter cuts him off. It comes out sharper than intended, but _whatever._ _Good_ , actually. “How can I be one, anymore?”

Stark elects not to answer him, in favor of depositing Peter onto a couch cushion. “We’re going to get you better, alright? Get some water in you.”

The man can barely look at him. Peter finds himself chuckling lowly. “Why won’t you look at me?” he questions, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. He finds he doesn’t quite want to look at Stark, either. He’s already feeling nauseous; he’s afraid he’ll puke if he looks. “You still won’t look at me.”

A long silence follows, when Stark decines to answer.

Inexplicably, Peter bursts into tears. He’d been so angry just a second ago, and it’s like a nerve in him just snaps. The tears are scorching hot sliding down his cheeks, and he chokes on sob after sob, feeling his chest rip apart a little more with each one. “Am I useless to you now?” he asks. “Worthless? Useless _and_ worthless?”

Objectively, he knows that he shouldn’t be fixating on his worth to the man who violated him, but he can’t help it. Even in this situation, Tony Stark is _Tony Stark_. Peter can’t shut off his desire to be cherished by such a powerful man -- especially the powerful man that is his mentor.

“No, Peter, that’s not it at all. You’re worth _everything_ ,” Tony refutes. “Why do you think I’m trying to send you to therapy and stay away from you?”

In his own way, Tony loves him. Peter knows this. He’s not sure what exact permutation of love exists between them, but it’s there. He snivels miserably and wipes at his eyes. “This is all so fucked up, Mr. Stark. This is just -- why? Why did you have to fuck this up? Why?”

“Because I’m no good, Peter,” Tony answers, but it passes right over Peter’s head because he’s so caught up in his own whirlwind of misery.

“I always counted on you to fix the fucked up stuff,” Peter babbles, feeling tears drip from the corners of his eyes back into his hairline. There’s a shift in pressure as Stark sits on the couch, a few feet away from Peter's head. Peter’s so drunk that he’s somehow okay with that proximity.

A trembling hand starts stroking at his hair, and Peter allows it.

“Whenever things went wrong, you always came in and fixed it for me,” Peter murmurs. “You always made me feel better, and I trusted you in a way I trusted nobody else because I loved you, and you loved me, in whatever weird way you did. God, I’m so fucking stupid.” He laughs, miserable and wet. “B-but this time, you’re the one who fucked me up, so what are we supposed to do?”

“Sleep, first,” Tony offers, barely louder than a whisper. “Sleep. It probably means nothing to you, but you’re safe here. Nobody will touch you, I promise. And we can talk in the morning.”

With alcohol as a buffer, Peter can actually draw comfort from the man’s proximity and his gentle tones. That, in and of itself, is beyond fucked up, but the alcohol also conveniently wipes those concerns out, too, like a magic eraser. It’s like pinching off a nerve and momentarily cutting off the signals of common sense.

Peter shuts his eyes with a soft sigh and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.

\---

When he wakes, he feels like utter _garbage_. His stomach is turning and his head is pounding. He might throw up.

The first thing he does is look down at himself, verify that his clothes are on and untampered with. When he confirms that, he lets out a loud exhale of relief.

The second thing he does is catch onto the other presence in the room. It’s not difficult -- Tony isn’t trying to hide himself. The billionaire is sitting on the couch across from Peter, elbows braced on his knees and hands clasped together. Between his spread feet is Peter’s bookbag -- unzipped and bottles spilling out onto the floor.

“Great, are you drunk?” Peter rasps, and then he gags slightly. God, he feels _so sick_.

“Stone cold sober, unfortunately,” Tony says, looking up at Peter for the first time in what feels like for-fucking-ever. “That water’s for you, and the Excedrin pack. Both are sealed.”

Peter downs both.

Tony waits until he’s finished swallowing and settled down before asking, “You want breakfast?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want it. Does that mean anything to you, though?”

_Harsh much, Parker?_

_No, actually. Not really._

Tony sighs. “I deserved that,” he says. “I deserve all of it. Kid - Peter, I mean.”

“No,” Peter murmurs, quietly. Nonetheless, Tony somehow hears him and falls silent. “You don’t get to talk, now. I didn’t get a chance to speak when you were... _taking_ me.” He _hates_ that he somehow still can’t voice the actual word, even if he can think it. Saying it would make it _too_ real. (Saying it would make Stark hurt in the most brazen way, and Peter just can’t bring himself to make this one cut.) “I couldn’t speak up then, so I want you to shut up and listen to me. It’s the least you can do.”

Stark closes his mouth and nods.

Peter’s out of tears by this point, half because he’s dehydrated from the drinking, and half because he’s cried enough tears to last a lifetime already. You can only cry about your hurts oh-so-many times before you get a little numb about it.

“You going against my consent, first and foremost? That was _wrong._ We both know that. And sometimes I still feel like it’s a bad dream, and I think I'll wake up. I want to wake up. Because I _never_  thought you’d do something like... like _this_ to _anyone_ , let alone to me. I _wish_ I could realize this was all a nightmare -- because _how could you_? You’re Tony Stark -- you're my mentor, and I loved you and you did wrong things sometimes, but I always thought you were good. And now, I don’t even know what to believe in anymore. It's so  _terrible._

“But, you just leaving me after -- leaving me so that I had to, like, get myself together in the morning and deal with it alone -- that’s _worse_. Because I always thought that you cared about me, even when I didn’t fucking want you to. And the one time I needed someone to care the most, you just -- you fucking left me alone. That’s _so_ shitty.”

The more Peter speaks, the more broken Tony looks, and it would have slowed Peter if he weren’t finally on a furious roll. “Do you have any idea what that felt like? Because it was one of the worst things I’ve felt. And honestly, I kinda hope that you don’t ever feel the way I did or experience what I did, but I also want you to hurt, which is terrible. I’ve turned into such a hateful person because of what you did to me, Mr. Stark.” He pauses, licks his lips, and then says, “Tony.”

The addressing by his first name makes the billionaire’s eyes widen. “Peter,” he murmurs, before shaking himself. “I -- is it okay for me to speak?”

Peter swallows. “Y-yeah. Go right ahead.” He twists his fingers into the afghan in his lap and puts on his hardest expression.

“I will never be able to apologize enough for what I did,” Tony says, and he sounds like he means it. “It would be wrong of me to assume anything could ever make up for it. There’s literally nothing I can do, no amount of money I can pay which will take back what I did. It’s unforgivable.”

Peter nods.

“And I’m not looking for forgiveness, because I don’t deserve it.”

Peter nods again. Tony’s right; he doesn’t deserve forgiveness.

“At this point, I just want to help _you._ I want to give you what you need to get through this. And if that means enrolling you in the best therapy possible and cutting myself out of your life, then so be it. Even if that’s the last thing I want.”

“Tony,” Peter says, at that point. The second use of the name is just as effective as the first; the older man falls silent, even though his gaze flies to the ground. “You -- you didn’t ask me for my input when _that_ happened. You didn’t ask for my consent, or consider what I wanted. And now, you’re doing it again -- you’re making decisions _for me_ without asking me what I want. Please, don’t do that. Just...  _ask me._ ”

“Okay.” Tony runs a shaky hand through his hair. “What do you want, Peter? What can I do?” He looks up, then, eyes dark and earnest. 

“I…I want to not be this hateful person anymore. I want to get rid of this... this _poison_ inside of me. I want to get better on my own terms. I want to... break shit and express the anger I’ve been trying to swallow because I feel like I’ve been choking on it this entire time, I feel like I can't fucking breathe, Tony. And." Peter pauses and inhales sharply. "I want you in my life.” Another pause, another inhale. “I… I want to be with you.”

The world comes to a standstill and all air leaves the room. Tony's jaw drops in shock, and his eyes widen.

Minutes pass like that.

“You shouldn’t,” Tony finally croaks, sounding a dissonant cross of horrified and hopeful.

“I know.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“No,” Peter agrees, “You don’t. But I’m allowing you, anyways.”

“Jesus. Okay. Whatever you want. So, what now?”

Peter swallows. “This anger and hatred. I need it out.”

There’s a long pause, and then Tony offers a weak smile. “I know just the thing."

\---

Turns out, _just the thing_ means smashing anything within the vicinity that’s smashable. Tony hands him the sack of alcohol, first. “I don’t know what you were planning to do with all that -- you would have died from alcohol poisoning before you were even halfway through, but we’ll start with this. Smash away.”

It’s immensely satisfying, to watch the glass shatter and splatter liquid all over the tile. Alcohol is a poison, technically, and watching it burst free of its container, all over the ground? It's tantamount to an emotional cleansing. A purge, a catharsis.

And because Tony says so, Peter doesn’t even have to worry about the damage and costs -- he’s allowed to break as his heart yearns to do.

Once the ground is flooded with booze and the reinforced boots Tony fetched him are crunching away at glass, Peter turns to the first kitchen cabinet.

“That’s the fine china,” Tony says, from where he’s seated on the kitchen island. “Smash away. It’s a thousand apiece. It’ll feel amazing.”

Peter shatters those, one after another, without hesitation. The shards of ivory-white and oriental blue accents quickly scatter. In a sudden fit of impulse, Peter turns and lobs one towards the farthest wall, where there’s little chance of him or Tony getting clipped. It explodes beautifully, china raining down in the loveliest hailstorm.

There’s a sordid type of gratification about watching prettiness and lavisnhess break by his own hand, Peter quickly realizes. He’d been broken by Tony’s hand, but getting to break things himself soothes some of the raw wounds. He’s not healed, but it’s like a balm over an angry burn.

After the china is gone, he moves to the second cabinet -- full of heavy, luxurious crystal. It’s beautiful, too. The plates catch light like scattering rainbows, and those rainbows flash and break with each fracture.

Tony says nothing, he just watches.

The third is full of ceramics.

The fourth, porcelain.

By the time Peter cleans out the kitchen, he’s panting and vibrating with the euphoria of his massacre. Once again, he’s reminded of how heady and intoxicating it can feel to hold power within one’s hand -- he's reminded of how destruction brings on a sense of ecstasy that's eerily close to bloodlust.

He thinks, _is this how villains feel?_  If so, he understands, now, and he wonders what makes them the way they are. Do they all have tragic backstories? Do they also have someone they loved who hurt them terribly?

“I don’t want to become a monster,” Peter blurts, before he can even tame that malignant thought.

Somehow, Tony understands his meaning. “You won’t. You’re too good.”

“Not anymore,” Peter refutes, looking down at his hands. It’s cognitively dissonant, to see them so pale and slender and _clean._ “I’m full of hate now. I’m used up and dirty. I’ve been ruined.”

“No,” Tony says, vehemently, with a grief-stricken voice that cracks apart at the end. "No." 

Peter looks up from his hands and notes that the older man looks just as devastated as he sounds. 

Of all things, this is what finally makes Tony Stark crumble. All the vicious words Peter lobbed at him before didn’t manage to do it, but Tony Stark breaks, now. He presses a shaky hand against his mouth to stifle a low sob, and several tears trail down his face. “God, you’re not,” he chokes out wetly. “You’re not, Peter. You’re still good, and you’ll always be good. That’s all on me, I’m the monster, alright? Please, you've gotta know that.”

Those words should mean nothing to Peter, coming from a man who’s done a act so heinous to him.

Somehow, they mean _everything._ It’s wrong, but they just do.

“Will you stay with me, then? Will you tell me that whenever I need to hear it?” Peter asks.

“I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you,” Tony vows, voice wet and shuddering. “My everything -- this entire empire? It’s yours, Peter. Just say the word. Tell me what you want. You can have Stark Industries if you want -- I just ask that you let the staff -- let Pepper -- keep their jobs.”

Peter pauses, then. _This is it_ , he thinks, feeling his stomach clench. Tony is _asking_ him what he wants -- he’s basically handing Peter a carte blanche.

And Peter knows exactly what he's been wanting all this time. What's been haunting darkest corners of his mind. “I.” He swallows and clears his throat. “Two things,” he says.

“Of course,” Tony agrees. “Name them.”

“I want you to take me again. Use me. While I'm sleeping.”

Dead silence.

“I, uh, want you to use me, except this time, I’ve asked you for it. This time, it’s in my control.”

“Peter,” Tony says, sounding seconds away from being sick on top of his tears. “What the fuck? Do you know what you’re asking?” He swipes roughly at his face with a shaking hand and levels Peter with a disbelieving look.

“Yes,” Peter snaps. “Don’t you get it? You took away my agency! You took away my choice! You made me feel powerless when I’m not! So I want you to do it to me again, except this time, I want to _know_ I have the power. And I'll have the power because I gave you my permission.”

“Kid, you have to think this through.”

“I have,” Peter says. “I’ve known this for a long time. Why do you think I kept pulling that sleeping bullshit?”

There’s another long, terrible silence, where Tony visibly wrestles with himself. “Only if you’re sure, Peter. I need you to be sure. I won’t..." His voice cracks into a half-sob, and he shakes his head. "Not again.”

Peter stares at the older man, hard. “The only thing that will change my mind is if _you_ don’t consent. Because I care about that, and _I_ don’t go around violating other people’s self-determination. But otherwise, I am beyond fucking sure.”

And that’s it -- that’s his full hand laid out on the table for Tony to see.

“Peter." A sniffle. A deep breath. In the face of Peter's seriousness, Tony wipes away his tears and calms himself as much as he can. "If you’re sure…”

“I am.”

“Then okay. Fine. But... give me some time? Give yourself some time? We need to do this right. Do this relationship right. Get you in therapy, take it slow, all of that.”

And, well,  _okay_. That's what Peter had been asking for, right? A relationship? A commitment? Somehow, he's surprised at how easy it was, but also pleased. 

In a back corner of his mind, Peter feels a flutter of youthful excitement and thinks that maybe -- just maybe -- not all of his old self is dead and gone. Maybe there's still a seedling left to be salvaged. “Oh, that won’t be a problem,” he says.

Stark blinks in confusion, and Peter smiles plaintively. He continues: “I'll go to therapy. But, my second requirement is that you get sober. Your drinking caused this, and you've gotta stop. You -- you owe me that, at the very least. I'll get my shit together, but you have to, as well.”

Stark only gives the briefest of hesitations before he nods, lips pursed and face hard, despite how his eyes still shimmer with tears. “Done.”

Well, that’s some sort of a step forward.

\---

It takes months. Stark goes into treatment -- not rehab, but a treatment program overseen by a licensed addiction medicine specialist. He nearly relapses multiple times, but he painstakingly clings to sobriety.

Someone who didn’t know better would call it a miracle.  

(Both of them feel sick -- probably always will, a little bit -- when they think of the actual reason for Stark’s sobriety. The evil seed and tainted soil it sprouted from. It’s hardly a miracle.)

Peter goes to therapy. He goes alone. He goes with Tony. He goes with a group. At one point, he goes on a retreat.

Nothing can reverse what happens to him, nor make up for it -- it’s a part of his history, now, just like Ben, like his parents, like Toomes and all the other demons he'd faced down. But, all the steps he take work to alleviate the worst of the hatred and anger in him -- like incising a swollen cyst and draining out the infection and pus.

Some nights, he calls Stark and rants at him. Some nights, he finds himself spewing righteous, hard words -- spoken with conviction -- that cut at both of them, but are truthful and justified. There are some hurts that are too heinous, some wounds that run so deep they’ll never truly heal over, and learning to speak of them is comforting in its own way.

Tony takes the words; he accepts them. He offers apologies, whilst acknowledging that they are not, and will never be, enough. He makes amends, knowing that nothing he does will ever be enough repentance, but willing to give as much as he can, nonetheless.

And slowly, Peter heals.  

They both do.

\---

Their first kiss goes like this:

Peter looks up from his oatmeal during a silent breakfast at the breakfast bar -- it’s not a bad morning, just a quiet one. A contemplative one. A tranquil one.

But Tony’s eyes are on Peter, and there’s this look in them.

And Peter _knows_. This is it. There’s no mistaking the hesitant admiration in the man’s expression.

“Can I kiss you?” Peter asks, because he’ll never again be able to not ask. He’ll never be able to take anything without express consent, not after he himself was taken without, but that's alright. It’s a small, worthy forfeiture for his mental sanity.

“Yes,” Tony breathes.

“Don’t move.”

“Okay.”

Peter does all of the work -- he prefers it that way. He kneels up in his seat and presses his hands on the surface of the bar to stretch over. Slowly, he leans in close, and without giving himself a moment to freak out, gently slots his lips over Tony’s carefully parted, purposefully still ones.

Not once does Tony move. He doesn’t budge the slightest -- he sits stock still and allows Peter to gently kiss at him. As Peter gently sucks at Tony’s lower lip, the older man’s eyes flutter at the contact and his breath quickens, but there’s no other disturbance.

For minutes that slow down, Peter just languidly moves his lips against Tony’s. It's a tentative exploration. A beginner's taste. And Tony is leaving himself open to be explored and tasted, at Peter's own pace. Softly, Peter traces at the man’s face with hands that no longer tremble.

Feeling the racing of his heart and the tingle down his spine -- without fear for the first time in a long while -- Peter feels a tearful relief sting at his eyes. “Finally,” he breathes out. “Thank fucking god.”

And they just hold each other. 

\---

The first time they make out, Peter pins Tony. He could have done without, but the man offered. He’d laid on his back and held his arms above his head, assuring Peter that it was alright.

And to straddle Tony and kiss him while holding him in place? It’s more comforting than the alternatives.

So, Peter could have done without. He really could have. _But_ he’s allowed these concessions for little bits of extra comfort. He is. He's allowed these nice, extraneous things simply for the fact that they make him feel good. That’s a notion he learned in therapy, and it’s one Tony never fails to encourage.   

So, he kisses hungrily into Tony’s receptive, warm mouth, and he kisses him and _kisses him_ , until Tony is the one who pulls back with an uncomfortable look. “Jesus,” the older man rasps out, eyes blown black but still full of concern. “I’m sorry.”

 _Sorry_?

It’s not until he tries to shift his hips away from Peter that it clicks. Oh.

_Oh._

“It’s okay,” Peter murmurs. It does feel okay. Now that Tony mentions it, Peter feels the way his body is hot all over. He feels the rush of blood. He feels the warmth that pools in his own groin, and he slowly, experimentally, rolls his own erection down against Tony’s.

Tony gasps, softly; Peter _moans_.

“Fuck, that’s good,” Peter mutters, and he rolls his hips down again. And again. And again. “Is this okay? Tell me to stop?”

“This is okay,” Tony breathes. “This is good. Whatever you want, okay?”

“Okay.”

When Peter comes, he buries his face against the crook of Tony’s neck and chokes out a soft, pitchy whimper as his orgasm -- long and smooth and _oh so fluttery_ \-- washes over him. It’s so _nice_ ; that’s the aptest way of describing it. It’s so gentle, in a way Peter’s not dared hope he could ever receive again.

Tony holds him close, the few minutes after, as Peter shakes and silently cries; Tony holds him tight and steady until it’s passed.

And then, Peter sits back, tilts his ass so it’s firmly lodged against the crotch of Tony’s pants, and starts rolling his hips. “God, sweetheart, you don’t have to,” Tony assures, even as a low groan rumbles in his chest.

“I want to,” Peter husks. “I want to see you. Can I?”

“Fuck,” Tony slurs, breath hitching at the delicious grind of Peter’s hips. “Yes, yes, you can see me. You can see all of me.”

“Yeah?” Peter goads, holding Tony flat with a firm hand pressed into the center of the man’s chest. He seats himself fully, glances down from this vantage point of such power, and speeds up the rolling of his hips.

“Anything you want,” Tony says, “Okay? Anything. I’m yours, I’m yours.”

"Say it again." 

"I'm yours."

Peter’s declared his intentions to never be powerless again when facing Tony Stark. He’s uttered that resolution a thousandfold, to Tony _and_ to himself.

But holding Tony down and watching the agony of pleasure dance across the man’s face as Peter brings him to completion? Hearing the man’s moans and his uttered promises of unwavering devotion to Peter?

This is the first time Peter knows -- _absolutely knows_ \-- that it’s true.  

 _I'm yours,_ Tony chokes out at Peter's questioning, as he comes. 

 _Yes,_ Peter thinks.  _You are._

\---

They fuck, days later, and it feels like coming home.

\---

Tony slides in, aching and thick and Peter feels so _full;_ he chokes on a strangled gasp, hoarse and wrecked. Tears come, too. They blur his vision, and his throat aches, and his breath hitches once, and again. And then, some more.

And then he’s crying, and Tony is freezing up and asking, voice fearful, “Fuck, honey, is it too much? I’m so sorry, I’ll stop.”

“No, no,” Peter interrupts, voice pleading and wispy. “Please, don’t stop, don’t stop. Just, hold me. Hold me, please.”

Tony does. He rests his entire weight on Peter, wraps his arms around the boy, and presses a soft kiss to the edge of Peter’s jaw. “Like this?”

“Yes, and fuck me. Fuck me, Tony.”

A roll of hips. “Like this?”

“Yes, yes, yes, please don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

“Please don’t let go.”

“I won’t.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“Never.”

\---

There’s talk -- lots of it -- before they actually do anything with sleep involved ( _somnophilia,_ Tony had carefully recited to Peter, as they both pored over all the texts the could find on the subject matter), and it goes better than either of them have hoped for; with Tony sober, with months of healing and countless sessions of therapy between the two of them, they’re in a far better place.

Rules are set, plans are intricately laid, and Peter is adamant about one thing, more than all others: “I want to wake up sore, with your come leaking out of me. I want to feel used. But. I don’t want to wake up alone. Never again.”

And that, Tony _can_ do. He knows, just as Peter knows, that with their history, they’ll hit potholes. Peter won’t always be so assured of his own agency. Maybe their scenes will pull at healing scars, cause some bleeding. There’s always a risk, and Tony regrets that he can’t eliminate any of them -- only help minimize.

But he can _stay_. He can calm those hurts and outwait them with Peter. He can guarantee that Peter will never have to face his demons alone.

And more than anything, Tony can give Peter this one thing he’s been wanting more than anything -- this one thing that can satisfy Peter’s subconscious, persistent appetites, while affirming his power. While allowing him to reclaim his agency to the fullest extent.

That’s the main thing, too. Doing this? In Peter’s mind, it’s taking back a precious thing for himself -- a precious thing he enjoys and wants. It’s by no means conventional, but this reclaiming means everything to Peter.

And because so, it means everything to Tony.

They talk, and talk, and talk, and then they plan.

\---

Peter wakes up and he feels  _sore._ For all of one second, his heart joltingly  _stops._

_Oh god._

_Please, no._

But then, he takes in the soreness. He takes inventory.

The mattress is a solid surface underneath him, yet soft and plush against his belly and chest and the tops of his legs, and his back is draped in the heavy weight of a thick comforter.

This time, the soreness doesn’t _hurt_.

This time, there’s a pleasure in his lower gut.

This time, he isn’t alone -- there’s a second weight over him, halfway off him. It’s warm, it’s breathing, it’s familiar.

It’s Tony.

“Hi,” Peter murmurs out, still feeling dazed from the aftereffects of his dosage. “Hmm, good morning. Is it morning?”

“Good morning, sweetheart,” Tony murmurs back, pressing a gentle kiss to the shell of Peter’s ear. “How do you feel?”

“Safe,” Peter whispers, before he can stop it. As he shifts his body, he can feel a faint wetness between his legs -- Tony’s come, slowly seeping out. Peter feels well-used, fucked open and loose, and the knowledge that Tony carefully used him -- _finished_ in him -- as Peter slept on blissfully unaware sends sizzles up Peter’s spine like a livewire. “Oh, fuck,” he whines, grinding his lips down into the mattress. With one hand, Peter reaches back and gently traces and tugs at his used rim, feeling the puffiness for himself and gently dipping his fingers in the mess that’s dripping out of him. He wiggles his fingers and listens for the telltale delicious squelch.

The press of soft kisses down the nape of Peter’s neck adds an edge of tenderness which makes his eyes sting and blood burn. “Needy today, aren’t we?” One of Tony’s hands joins Peter’s and gently, the man works in a finger besides Peter’s two. “How does that feel?” he asks, voice unnaturally intent. “How does it feel to wake up with my mess dripping out of you? How does it feel to wake up in my arms, knowing that I’ll keep you forever?”

 _Fuck._ It’s not quite the dirty talk Peter imagined -- it’s a little too deep, to be honest -- but it’s somehow exactly what he needed to hear. “Heaven,” he murmurs. “Feels like heaven.”

“And do you feel okay? Do you feel safe?”

“I do.”

“Good. That’s all I want.” There’s a pause, profound and full of things which no longer need saying. If Peter listens, he can almost hear the last, fading breath of demons being exorcized -- some of them, at least. Then, Tony slides his finger in a little further -- the come seeping between their intertwined fingers makes the slide easy, and makes Peter let out a soft, wrecked ‘ _oh_ ’, because _holy shit_ , there’s such a devastating vulnerability and intimacy in how their fingers are tucked together inside of Peter. Tony asks, “What do you need, baby?”

“Touch me,” Peter groans. “Touch me more, please. Make me come, I need to come.”

“Of course, baby,” Tony acquiesces, and he gently withdraws his single finger before pulling Peter’s hand away, as well. There’s barely enough time for Peter to lodge a protest before Tony is reassuring him, “Let me do the work, hmm? Let me take care of you.”

And how could Peter ever say no to that? He’s still shaking off cobwebs of sleep and his eyes are delightfully heavy, and it’s the most decadent feeling to just lie in a daze and let Tony slowly trail kisses down the small of his back, lower and lower, until he’s nosing gently at the crease of Peter’s ass and licking into Peter.

It’s not what he'd imagined -- Peter had thought there would be a complete mess the next morning, and they’d fuck passionately. Brutally. He’d imagined tears and comfort and a distinct, tense edge they have to buffer out. He'd expected maybe an emotional hurdle or two, because with their history? Those are quite common. And those still might come -- Peter’s looking forward to the intensity and ecstasy -- the agony and pain. A small, dark corner of his mind is hungry for something more sinister than a scene he’s consented to and prepared for; he's not sure if he'll ever truly lose that hunger. Likely, it's something they'll have to constantly navigate and negotiate.

These are the remnants of his experiences. (He has many remnants, actually, and some of them may be yet undiscovered mines.) Some days, these demons will come creeping out of the woodwork. And he’ll have to face them -- both he and Tony will.

But today is not one of those days.

Today, Peter lazily ruts his hips against the mattress as Tony licks into him with unrushed, deep laves of his tongue, slow and wet and squelchingly sloppy. Today, the way the older man’s hands knead firmly all over Peter’s backside and thighs has Peter panting into the softness of his pillow.

Today, Peter feels safe and unhurried and _at home_.

He comes quietly, with a slight break in his breath. His orgasm courses gently through his entire body in tingles which remind Peter of laughter and rain showers and wind chimes; he comes against the mattress in dribbles and with a raspy whine -- one which drags on and eventually tapers into a soft sigh as he slowly descends from his cloudy high to the faint ticklish sensation of tiny kisses being littered all over the back of his neck, the blades of his shoulders, the ridges of his spine. He sinks down to the stabilizing weight of Tony’s body braced over him, simply _there_ and present.

At one of their darkest points, Tony had pledged that he would spend an eternity making up for his misdeeds. Peter finds that he doesn’t doubt that vow the slightest.

“Hi,” Peter murmurs, half into the pillow and half towards Tony, whose chin is hooked against Peter’s left shoulder. ”Hello.”

 _You’re here_ , is what he means.

“Hi,” Tony husks. He buries his bearded face against the soft curve of Peter’s neck and breathes, slow and deep. “Hello.”

_I’m here, I’m here. I’m here to stay._

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I'm never quite sure what to write at the end of a fic like this -- or anything with a dark/heavy topic, for that matter. I guess, if there's one thing to stress, it's that this fic should be taken with many grains of salt and treated as what it is -- simply fiction. 
> 
> I'll admit, this was cathartic to write. Based on my life experiences, using Peter's POV and expressing the anger and anguish he felt so ardently was the highlight of my experience writing this piece. Thank you for reading. 
> 
> (Just a general thing to note: the authors who write after me in this series will have happier, kinkier somnophilia smut if that's what you're into. Part of my job in writing this piece was to get through the brunt of the angst and put Peter on the path to recovery. If you are here for future smut, then you'll absolutely _love_ what's coming next; some absolutely fantastic authors are writing the future fics and they're gonna do an amazing job -- you probably know and love them already, TBH, because I sure as hell fangirl over them.)
> 
> I can be found on Tumblr as [SbiderSlut](http://sbiderslut.tumblr.com/). Come by anytime! <3


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